


Never Talk To Strangers

by TFTwrites



Category: Twilight (Movies), Twilight Series - Stephenie Meyer
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Dark, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Vampire, F/M, Gen, One Shot, Original Character(s), Out of Character, POV Female Character, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-06-19
Updated: 2012-06-19
Packaged: 2017-11-08 02:31:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,738
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/438160
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TFTwrites/pseuds/TFTwrites
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Takes place in an alternate universe where Edward lives in London preying on young women and transforming them into vampires at his pleasure.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Never Talk To Strangers

              Never talk to strangers my mother used to tell me countless of times while I was a little girl. I bet your mother did too. During those days, I’d obey her albeit reluctantly and mostly out of fear. Strangers were bad people apparently. Then suddenly, I became a teenager and following mommy's orders grew far less of a requirement and more like an option to use or not use whenever I felt like it. I'd find out later that, mother was still right on most occasions but I could never give her the satisfaction of an "I told you so" by confessing my mistakes.

              It was during a time like such as that (breaking off my engagement — mom did say the guy was a two-faced bastard early on) when I fled from my little apartment in sunny California and its overcrowded beaches to London so that the weather could match my mood while I got away from the overly sympathetic looks of friends and family. I used some of the money from selling my engagement ring (I asked the bastard if he wanted it back. He said yes but I didn't like his tone) to get me a plane ticket out of there and a room in a four-star hotel. I had planned to roam the streets of London and enjoy the coffee shops during the daytime and the pubs during the night. I had no idea how long I was to stay. At the back of my mind, I thought I'd keep going until my money ran out.

                It was only on my second day in the dreary city that I met him. By this time, my mother's childhood advice didn't seem to matter at all. So what if I didn't know him? That's how people make friends, right? Although, I hadn't just "met" him — I literally BUMPED into him.

                My eyes had been glued to the undecipherable map I was holding in my hands, walking along what I thought was a deserted street until he showed up seemingly out of nowhere. I walked straight into him without even noticing until I was bleary eyed, my face red faced from embarrassment, and I could feel my butt was getting sore from having hit the pavement maybe a little too hard. Apparently, he hadn't seen me either. He had said so apologetically, waving a cell phone in one hand (the culprit) while he pulled me up effortlessly with the other.

                I wanted to bite his head off but when I focused on his charming face, you could say I became a bit distracted. He had beautiful, striking eyes that were vibrant against his pale skin — a little too pale for my taste but it is London after all and people do look like that, right? His eyes were almost blood red but not quite. They were highly unnatural and I wondered briefly if he was wearing contact lenses or not. But either way, I couldn’t stop looking into to his eyes and I must have appeared like a complete idiot gawking at him the way I did.

                His hand touched my shoulder and I thought I heard him say something along the lines of "Are you alright?" and it brought me out of my reverie. I glanced down at his hand holding me steady by the shoulder so that I didn't stare into his eyes and get lost in them again. I spotted him wearing these tight black leather gloves — the kind that one would usually see on bikers or horse racers or something. They looked rather out of place because although it was London and the sky was overcast, it wasn't unbearably cold, not even for my California-sunned skin. I waved off the odd feeling in the pit of my stomach and finally had the sense to smile and tell him I was okay.

                He looked genuinely relieved and removed the hand on my shoulder, albeit a little too slowly and carefully as if to make sure I didn't tip over when he let go. When he seemed satisfied that I was quite stable on my own two feet, he stuck out his hand for me to shake, still grinning. I took his hand and his fingers easily wrapped around mine though the feeling of the leather against my bare palm was slightly uncomfortable. I smiled up at him and apologized with a laugh for being so clumsy and stupid — walking with a map to her nose.

                "Classic tourist mistake," he had said, chuckling. I wasn't sure at that time if he had meant it as a joke or not but I thought it was charming. I would realize quite regretably that he would never be as charming as he had been then.

                I was hesitant to leave him because had been so nice and I admit rather handsome — a strong jaw, an aquiline nose and nice tousled reddish-brown hair as if he hadn't bothered with a comb ever. Oh, and had I mentioned his eyes? To me he didn't seem all that keen to leave me either (though it could have just been my wishful thinking) and we started to walk slowly in the same direction. The look in his eyes as I managed to glance up at him was that of interest. I wasn't sure of why exactly but I wanted to think that he was only being worried for me which only added to his "charmingness".

                I tried to convince him that I was really alright but he just smiled and looped my arm around his. He bent low — he was rather an imposing figure, at least 6-feet tall in contrast to my five-and-four inches — and whispered into my ear, "Let me be your tourist guide." His voice could only be described with my limited vocabulary as "smooth as butter". A rather cheesy, over used line but the way his words flowed out of his mouth and seemed to wrap around my whole being felt like nothing other. Why I hadn't noticed just how silly he had sounded then was beyond me.

                So consumed was I by his voiced that I hadn't detected his rather peculiar accent right away — it wasn't actually all British sounding but had a twinge of an American accent — Chicagoan from what I could tell. Not that it mattered now. There were a lot of Americans living all over the UK, adopting some British accent or another for all I knew. But like I said, not that it mattered.

                We kept walking and as we did, somewhere along the way, we exchanged names. He liked my name he had said and that he believed it suited me well. I clumsily replied with a "I never went out with someone with your name before" even though it wasn't true. He had a rather common name, something out of Jane Austen novel. I heard him laugh as if he thought me silly or stupid and I regretted opening my mouth at all. He patted me on the back and that consoled me somewhat. We eventually relaxed into an easy conversation but I didn't dare talk too much.

                We walked and walked while he told me interesting stories of the places we passed by whether they were historical landmarks or just everyday places but had a good lot of something interesting behind them. He sounded very intelligent and worldy despite his youthful appearance. He couldn't have been a little more than my age and that seemed like pushing it already. He was definitely one of those "old soul" types, I suppose.

                It was a little past noon when he finally steered me into a cozy looking cafe. There weren't many people around and some of the people that were already there looked like they were ready to leave as well. We eventually had the place all to ourselves. He watched me as I ordered my salad and a tall glass of iced tea. The sun had broken out of the dense fog and clouds and it felt nice to feel its warmth pressing through the cafe window where I was sitting next to. He sat in the shadow and didn't eat at all, ordering only a glass of plain house water that he took occasional sips from as if to appear polite but I really didn't notice because I was too busy having too much fun with this mysterious but charming stranger.

                When I was done eating - and I had some tea and cake due to his coaxing — he insisted on paying. I really couldn't let him but somehow he managed to wrangle a yes out of me anyway and we left the cafe just past 4 o'clock in the afternoon. There was still so much to see, he said, his voice had a hint of excitement and it was rather infectious. I let him lead me across what seemed like the entirety London. We only slowed down to watch the sunset, reflecting in the river Thames and I continued to listen to him talk about his love for this city. I was beginning to like it more and more too but maybe it was because of the man standing beside though I really didn't want to admit it.

                Before I knew it, he was tilting his head towards mine, steadying me by the shoulders as he had this morning when we had our fateful encounter. I knew I shouldn't. I wasn't a kiss-on-the-first-date kind of girl and technically this wasn't even a date. But I let him kiss me anyway.

                Then everything seemed to go horribly wrong.

                When his lips pressed against mine they felt like marble — cold and hard — like nothing that I've ever felt and I could say that I've had a good number of kisses from boys and men to know what it should feel like. It was definitely not this. I tried to pull away, a scream already bubbling up and ready to come out but he held me there in a vice-like grip, my shoulders aching from his strength, his mouth still over mine. I could feel him pry my lips apart and I struggled, completely helpless.

                My bottom lip caught against his teeth and he bit down hard. I tasted my own blood, metallic and somewhat salty at the same time. I winced slightly but I didn't know that the pain that I was going to experience next was to be hell on earth.

                Brought away and thrown into what could only be described as a prison cell, two days I writhed in pain. It was dark, dank and freezing but ironically it felt comforting against the endless pain that wracked my whole being. In those two days, my once-savior turned captor and torturer was nowhere to be found or so I thought. If he had been there, he had not made his presence known to me. I did not eat or drink but it did not matter — I didn’t think I had enough energy to feed myself much more keep anything down. God help me, I did not know how I managed to stay alive for as long as I did but there were many times I had wished I had just died. I still do to this day.

                The only reason I knew that two days had gone by was because he had told me himself. The morning of the third day (I called those times I woke up "mornings" even though I couldn't tell if it were night or day inside that cell) and the pain had miraculously subsided. It still hurt but I could feel it slowly going away. I wanted to sigh in relief but then he appeared.

                Through hazy eyes, I watched him approach my wasted body and he lifted me into his arms and again carried me away. I felt him (for my eyes were closed tight out of fear and exhaustion. I couldn't stand to look at him) brush some of my matted, sweaty hair away from my face and I felt the cold clamminess of his skin against mine. He didn't have his gloves on, those gloves that looked out of place and uncomfortable to the touch but now I wished he still had them on.

                I willed my lips to move and for something to come out but it was no use. I might as well have been born mute. From the sound of his voice I could tell that he was amused at my struggling and he told me gently that the worse was over. He remarked at my strong will and how most usually succumbed on their second day. I shivered at the mere thought of the people he had done this to. How many? Five, ten...fifty? How many people's lives had he tortured and mangled for sheer pleasure?

                I must have passed out then because the next thing I knew I was lying on a bed. It was a plain four poster bed, painted black with red silk sheets. There was no pillow underneath my head. I sat up, disoriented, my vision as if it under a psychedelic haze. I saw everything in HD and perceived every minute detail. I must be on something, I thought. Everything felt intense, my senses having been switched on suddenly into hyper drive, leaving me dizzy and with a pounding in my head.

                Besides the bed, there was only one other item in the room — a big chamber with soft light that seemed to glow an eerie green right off the walls themselves) — a gilded floor length mirror. It was painted black just as the bed had been. From where I sat, I could somehow make out my reflection and I crawled to the end of the bed, staring at myself all the while. It was mesmerizing and horrifying at the same time. Was that really me, I asked myself. Surely, it was another girl. It was as if the torture of the past two days had ripped away my old skin and then replaced with a new, more beautiful, but pale one. I eyed the woman staring back at me through the mirror, remembering the charming man — his pale skin, his red eyes, and his beautiful tousled hair — beginning to see that it was me now too. How could that be?

                Not wanting to think about it any longer or else I developed a severe headache, I focused my attention back on the room. There were no doors and no windows. No evidence of how I could have gotten in or more importantly how I was to get out. Where am I? I cried out weakly except it did not come out weak at all, rather it was strong, loud and...melodious?

                Now, I used to think that I had a pretty decent voice. It was cheerful and had a nice high ring to it although I've been told it can become irritatingly squeaky. But I never, ever remembered my voice sounding like THIS before. The room was quiet except for the faint echo, a remnant of this new voice. I felt like crying but I could not. I wasn't sure why something as natural as tears could not be produced. Was I that weak that to cry was too much or had I simply lost the ability to do so? I was to find out later that it was the latter. The pain had, like everything else, taken it away. Well, except for one thing. There was still _hunger_.

                My creator (no longer savior, captor, or torturer, I'd finally decided) came in, the door appearing out of the wall seamlessly. He was still smiling, grinning like a Cheshire cat. In fact, I could practically see the joy on his face as he entered, like he had accomplished some great and terrible task. He had in his hands a large bowl and a silver spoon. Sitting beside me on the silken sheets, he fed me. I was so desperately hungry that I had let him. It took all of my willpower not to lose control and act like the starved beast that I was. Only after I had finished the very last drop did it dawn on me that the delicious red liquid in the bowl hadn't been tomato soup after all.

                Never talk to strangers my mother used to say.

                She was right again.


End file.
